The Lady of Storm's End
by JohnGreenGirl
Summary: One-shot. Arya's sailing unknown seas now, but she makes a yearly pilgrimage to see a certain Lord of Storm's End.


**The Lady of Storm's End**

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They say the lord of Storm's End is a strange fellow.

He came from humble beginnings. Rivers was his name, first, before it was Baratheon. Legitimized through the Dragon Queen, gods rest her soul. Gifted the lands after fighting in the War Against the Dead.

Perhaps that was why he spent more time in the streets, among the common people, than he did his castle. The young lord could most often be found in the forges, apprenticing young boys—and girls—in blacksmithing.

But he could also be found elbows-deep in the earth, helping in the gardens. Not the castle gardens, no; those gardens bloomed with blue winter roses. They were overflowing there, an homage and reminder of a Northern girl the lord once knew. Rather, he could be found in the city gardens, toiling the ground, earth black as his hair staining his arms.

He helped with the construction of new buildings. The lord wasn't a stranger to farm work. He often ate his suppers among the common folk, in his favorite inn, where a heavyset boy that was surprisingly familiar with the lord served as the cook.

This was not what made him strange, however. It was unusual behavior for a lord, even one who grew up as a commoner himself, but the people had soon grown accustomed to it. What was most strange to the people of Storm's End was how he never took a wife.

Their young lord was handsome, no doubt. He had his father's Baratheon looks, with his dark hair and blue eyes. He would not want for female company…if he sought it out. Alas, it seemed he abstained entirely, save for a handful of weeks of the year.

When _she_ landed back on Westerosi soil.

The girl the blue winter roses bloomed for. Arya Stark.

No one ever saw her come or go. Some were convinced she was a legend. There were ways to tell when she was paying her yearly visit.

The lord smiled more. There were feast days and tournaments for the people. Dancing and merrymaking were to be had, but the lord was present for none of it. He was holed up in his castle for a change.

"Lord Gendry," she always greeted him, a smile playing at her lips. She was tanned from the sun and wind and all her time spent out at sea. Arya made a game of breaking into his castle. Granted, this was only the fourth year of this tradition, but she had never been caught.

"Arya," he always whispered her name like a prayer, drawing her into his arms. Inhaling the sea salt of her skin, he would kiss her so deeply she felt she might dissolve like sea foam under his touch. "How long have you been here?"

He ran his hands through her hair, working out the tangles. Arya's eyes fluttered shut under his touch.

"In Westeros or in your bedchamber?"

"Both," he chuckled. "And how long are you staying?"

"I landed in Westeros last yesterday morning. I rode through the night to get here. I've only been in your bedchamber for thirty minutes. You were helping lay stone for the road you're building. I watched you from the window."

She smirked up at him, trailing her hand along the back of his neck. "You need a haircut."

"You'd be surprised what little time I have to myself, being a lord and all." Gendry felt as if he could not get himself close enough to her. She was still tiny, lithe, but muscled now that she spent so much of her time navigating the sea and exploring. He let his hands span down her waist, over her hips, around her thighs.

Gendry gripped her there, lifting her. Arya wrapped her legs around his waist, her mouth finding his again. He carried her to his bed—much loftier than the ground they used to sleep on together, or the sacks of grain where they first made love—and set himself to the task of unlacing her leathers.

She let his hands uncover her through layers, keeping herself busy with Gendry's own clothing. Kisses from both parties landed where they could as clothing was shuck. And then, finally, after months of waiting for her, the lord of Storm's End was able to press into his lover again.

He held her in his arms, their breath hitching between them. Arya clung to him, Gendry's body more solid to her than dry land after her months at sea. Always, she forgot how empty she had grown to feel until she had Gendry to fill her again.

Unlike their first time, Arya almost always fell asleep afterwards now. She was exhausted, Gendry knew, from sailing back to charted soil…and she had ridden through the night to get to Storm's End, too.

Clinging to him even in her sleep, Arya fell into her dreams with her head resting squarely over Gendry's heart.

There was merrymaking in the streets, sure. But Gendry had always been more concerned with this lovemaking.

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**A/N: **I need to believe, in my heart of hearts, that Gendry and Arya aren't over even though Arya's out enjoying the pirate life now. So this happened.


End file.
